Beyond the Edge of Ruin
by Something Less Than Epic
Summary: What took place in the year between the end of the world and the gathering of the group? How did each character deal with the gulf of time? What, to be succinct, happened? A collection of Final Fantasy VI short stories.
1. Despair: The Tale of Strago

Note: This is, in fact, a remake of an earlier work of mine, the incomplete and horribly titled "After the Fall". My aim is the same, but the tales I tell will no doubt end up being very different from those I originally wrote. Somehow, I doubt anybody still remembers my old work, but, you never know.  
  
--  
  
Before the world went to hell, the last thing Strago managed to eye was his young granddaughter. She was falling, screaming, perhaps crying. As she floated away, carried by winds of ill fortune, the old man couldn't tell.  
  
And then he was thrown, darkness taking his sight for a time. The reverberating howl of air, rushing by his aged ears, pushing his spiky crown of hair back against his skull, turning his clothes into a crimson streak, pushed Strago far beyond the bounds of comprehension.  
  
And then he lost all consciousness. The black that enveloped his eyes did the same for his very mind. Dully, subconsciously, his weathered body registered the fact that Strago was deep underwater, and his gnarled hands pulled him above the crashing waves. Beleaguered lungs dragged at air, grasping for life. All around him was a dull, echoing roar.  
  
Time passed.  
  
--  
  
It was not until a small poking sensation jarred Strago's shoulder that his body decided he'd been under for too long. Slowly, swimming through the void of sleep, he sought out for the source of the disturbance – but consciousness remained aloof, elusive. Where was it? Strago called out for it, seeking life, seeking light –  
  
And suddenly, as though slapped heavily, Strago leapt up, crying out in distress the name of his granddaughter. Where was she, why was she gone, where are you Relm? And only several restraining hands managed to drag the old man back down onto a dirt-encrusted cot. He struggled a few moments longer, eyes gazing about wildly, before resuming the still, twitchy motions of fatigue. He collapsed, bereft of strength, and slept.  
  
His overseers feared for him. He'd been asleep for nearly two months now, and this was the first sign of life he'd ever shown; not a good start.  
  
--  
  
Strago's next foray into the world of light would come a scant few hours later. His outburst of emotional power heralded the far more controlled, rational awakening witnessed by his saviour. His eyes, heavy-lidded with despair, rose with great laboriousness. Relm's name came not in screams but whispers, and with his dawning recognition that his beret-studded granddaughter came the glimmers of cognisance.  
  
His dwelling, such as it was, came in the form of a rather dilapidated hut. The roof, made of poorly hewn straw, bore numerous holes through which poured the red light of twilight. Battered utensils of all kinds lay strewn about, some lying on scratched tables, others left carelessly on the grimy floor. The door could hardly be termed as such, for it was little more than an irregularly cut hole. Strago's very resting place was a cloth stretched across what felt like a hard wooden plank: in fact, it was the remains of an old Jidoor style dresser, converted into a cot. But he had no way of knowing that.  
  
Strago drank this all in slowly, hardly rising from his makeshift bed. He hadn't the energy for such things at current. For intermingled in all this was the realization that Strago had failed his little Relm, who, for all he knew, was currently smashed up against a jagged outcropping of rocks. Or sitting amongst the contents of some venomous sea serpent. Or the skin pillow of a jovial madman. A multitude of possibilities flickered amongst the crevices of his aged mind, and the thought of it all threatened to drag Strago back underneath the waves of despair. His wrinkled brow sagged back to the blanketed surface of the cot.  
  
Were it not for the presence of his saviour, whom Strago had not yet even noticed, huddled in the corner of the hut, seated on a damp cushion, the mage probably would've given in then and there. But no. She, small and timid, yet unquestionably bold, leapt up from her hiding place, rushed to his side, and shook him violently. Her strength far outweighed the size of her frame, small and emaciated. Somehow persuaded to rise back to the world, Strago raised an eyelid in response to her entreaties.  
  
Small, tanned, thin, and covered by a long black mane of hair. This was the sight that greeted the old man. She could not have been more than six or seven years of age. Her eyes were intent and curious, full of flame yet equally cautious of the man. Yet she would not allow his hand to slip through hers, and she continued to shake him insistently.  
  
His voice, hoarse and croaking, emerged with some difficulty. "Alright, alright. . ." With a great measure of care, Strago slowly rose from his resting place, drinking in the details of his dwelling once more, as though to confirm the reality of it all. The girl, convinced of his recovery, tentatively dropped Strago's knobbly hand and stepped back. Groaning with equal portions of misery and pain – for a man left to sleep for two months is apt to gain a great deal of knots in his bones – Strago let his legs dangle from one side of the cot. He gazed on the little girl, who had now backed off even further, and calmly wished she'd just left him to expire on what, by all right, should have been his deathbed.  
  
"Where. . . am I?" He queried, careful not to make any sudden movements. The girl looked ready to bolt for the door at any second.  
  
Silence reigned supreme. The girl said nothing in response, not making even the slightest indication that she'd heard him.  
  
"Okay. . . well, what's your name, little one?"  
  
She narrowed her eyes but did not move.  
  
Strago closed his own in vexation. "Well, either you're very shy, my dear, or quite deaf. . . I suppose I'll chalk it up to youthful jitters. . ."  
  
A voice, flowing in roughly from a nearby window, supplied his answer. "You'd better follow your second belief, sir; she's as deaf as the dead." Strago, a little unnerved, was soon to witness its owner as he entered the hut. He was a large, bearded man, with darkly golden skin that matched that of the girl. He was bare-chested and burly, reminding Strago rather of his late acquaintance Sabin. Upon taking in the man, however, Strago decided he'd not acquired his girth through fighting, but rather labouring. His movements seemed overly large and clumsy, not at all like the fluidity and grace Sabin matched with his peerless power. "As for me, sir, I'm very able to take any questions. Darren's the name."  
  
Strago nodded, eyes retreating again to the girl. "My name's Strago. And. . . hers?"  
  
The big man shrugged nonchalantly. "Couldn't tell you. Like I said, she's stone deaf. Can't hear a thing. Because o' that, I guess, she won't say a word. Guess she never really learned how to speak anyway. We just call her Gully, since she seems to love seagulls."  
  
Allowing a moment for this new information to process, Strago gazed mutely at little Gully. She was backing away slowly, seemingly taking refuge from both Strago and the broad-shouldered Darren.  
  
"Okay. . . where are we, then?"  
  
Darren sighed, scratching his chin. "That, sir, is gonna take longer to explain."  
  
--  
  
They were, in fact, situated upon a rather desolate island somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Upon the end of the world, or so it had come to be called, the boat Darren had been on – bound for South Figaro – was sent careening into the sea. He'd lost consciousness, but one of the other survivors had managed to witness what had happened. Succinctly put, the water had torn the ship apart, so volatile and vicious had the waves been. On a ferry bearing over seventy people, only twenty-three had managed to survive the destruction. Since then, two had died, bringing the sum total of their tiny colony to twelve women and nine men, Strago included. Their homes, fabricated out of the remains of the ferry that had drifted ashore, were all in equally poor condition, and numbered six in total.  
  
Strago, apparently, had washed up on shore three days after they'd located the island. He'd been given the most comfortable piece of furniture from the boat that they'd managed to recover, the dresser, and had lain completely dormant until his earlier outburst. They'd all feared for the worst, considering the conditions under which he'd awoken, and most of the villagers had pegged Strago for death until Darren had heard him talking to Gully within the hut.  
  
Ever since washing up on shore, the survivors had set about rebuilding their lives – meagre though they now were – and created at least a partially thriving colony. To stave off despair, they'd all agreed to hold nightly dances, creating such revelry that sinking spirits could not hope to set in. Each member of the community was accorded their own task, from fishing to hunting and gathering, to keep the melancholy of idleness from setting in. Even Gully had been given a task, that of keeping watch for passing ships; however, nobody really knew if she actually kept to her task or not. Not a single person expected to be rescued anyway.  
  
All this time, they'd cared for Strago. Fed him. Watered him. Bathed, cleaned, even aided in relieving. Keeping the old man alive had become a preoccupation for every person there, a reason to keep going: his resuscitation, it seemed, was the key to driving off despair. And it had apparently worked. For all those in the village rushed to the old man as he emerged from his hut, treading slowly and with elderly caution. Their faces did not mirror the world that Strago encountered outside the hut, for each was aglow with light and tanned happiness, all cheering him on and gently patting him on the back.  
  
They made him feel no better. For now, Strago was faced with the world. And he knew, looking at that perpetual twilight in the sky, gazing upon the purplish, seemingly spoiled waters, the sparse grass, the total lack of vitality and life. . . he knew, there, that he wanted to die. He should have died.  
  
Collapsing under their false cheer, for false Strago had deemed it, the despairing mage returned to the welcome bliss of oblivion.  
  
--  
  
When next he awoke, Strago was stretched upon the sand. The blackly red sky spread overhead, a few cautionary stars making their first appearances for the night. Though he didn't know it, Strago had been left to rest upon the beach, now that he'd been deemed cured, for it was easily the softest surface available.  
  
He rose groggily for the third time that day. As awareness washed over him, Strago realized that he was not alone. Gully sat to his left, watching him with fiery concern, one of her fingers lazily tracing a path amongst the sloping dunes. Resting on his elbows, Strago ventured a look at what she was drawing.  
  
He was blessed with a sight denied anyone else, for Gully always destroyed her drawings long before anybody noticed.  
  
She was drawing a long, spiralling dragon. Despite her obviously young age, Gully seemed possessed of the soul of an artist, as evidenced through her creation – for, indeed, her dragon was of incredible artistic merit. With her small fingernails, Gully traced intricate details within the confines of its curves, etching thin scales and sweeping feathers. Despite being static, it was filled with motion, its thin whiskers trailing out alongside its body and swishing with lazy grace. Strago could see it roar, over and over again, mighty jaws conveying a toothy laugh. It was winking, as though it knew all of ones secrets and had decided to keep them in confidence.  
  
It was beautiful. And with every motion of her finger, Gully made it ever more intricate and beauteous. She never erred, pausing only briefly at spots in order to continue her work with greater precision.  
  
Any other man would have been aghast. He would have considered Gully a prodigy.  
  
Strago, instead, thought only of Relm, who could perform similar miracles with an equivalent, magical grace.  
  
The old man watched her draw for nearly ten minutes before realizing he was crying silently. And, with this revelation, he buried his face deep into the sand and sobbed hollowly.  
  
Gully left her drawing and clutched the old man in desperation. After a while, he registered her presence, and held her tightly to his heaving chest. She did not struggle to get away, remaining simply silent and emotionally adrift from her elderly companion.  
  
--  
  
Strago was to remain upon the island for a month. His encounter that night with Gully seemed to give him a new life; and though he would forever mourn Relm, Gully had managed to carve a new place for herself in his heart. Perhaps she'd been waiting for him to accept her: for, as Darren informed Strago, she'd spent more time in the comatose mage's company than any other villager, fleeing only when others approached. Where she distrusted others, she latched on to Strago, silently following his every move, mirroring every action, good or bad.  
  
Upon learning of Strago's considerable power, Darren had appointed to the old man the position of guardian. Though few in number, the island still bore a dangerous host of demons and monsters, and encountering with them was a task that nobody enjoyed. Strago, with his magical abilities, made a great ally, and he had no difficulty in dispatching such fiends.  
  
He was filled with renewed vigour. Strago was committed to his position. Alongside his newly adopted charge, he spent his days laughing, building, defending, and watching the seagulls. Gully had adopted her name well, for she truly did love watching those birds in flight: she would trace their flight with her small fingers, face slowly forming into one of her rare smiles. Only the birds and her new grandfather elicited such a response.  
  
Strago was, if not full cheered, then somewhat healed. His sense of humour had returned. He berated the men for being weaker than him. Darren and he became good friends, and would spend their evenings talking long about their homes, their families. Their lives.  
  
All was well again.  
  
But, in such a world as this, things had a way of backsliding. . . and good humour, though well gotten, had a way of vanishing. For there were those who desired ill-intentions upon any who drew breath.  
  
--  
  
Gully, finally completing her assigned task, spotted the boat first.  
  
It was, in a word, monstrous. From bow to stern, every inch of the black hull was decorated in ghoulish spines and crawling unmentionables. Skulls, bodies, and even severed tongues hung from the sides, dangling limply in the sea air. Huge ragged sails, propelled principally by arcane magic, guided the huge grotesque mess towards the island with unbelievable speed: and by the time Gully had dragged Strago over to have a look, her dark tresses swinging wildly, it was too late. The boat, ignoring standard sailing procedure, carved a deep path through both water and sand, careening with the beach at full speed. The epic rumble managed to send both Strago and Gully to the ground, and as the rest of the villagers came rushing to witness the disturbance, all hell broke loose.  
  
Over the sides of the boat catapulted figures clad fully in white and emerald green, their heavy robes belying both their speed and vigour. They resembled the royal guard of the late Emperor down to the slightest detail, save in the shabbiness and colour of their garb. Landing softly upon the sand, they flew forward, diving amongst the gathered villagers and snatching up hidden weaponry from the confines of their clothing. Within ten seconds of their landing, every man save Darren was already dead – and even the big man was being harried, several lethal daggers jutting from his chest. Within a few moments he, too, would succumb. Only Strago remained alive throughout, alongside the women.  
  
Given those precious few seconds, Strago had already entered into battle mode, his cape pushed aside lightly. Under his breath came murmured utterances of mystical lore, and before any of the attackers managed to catch on to the old man's presence, he'd already let fly a powerful fire spell that fried one hapless interloper. His ashes settled in amongst the sand neatly.  
  
They all turned – some clutching weapons, others with women laid over their shoulders – and glared at the old man. He could distinctly hear them sniffing, as though deadly bloodhounds suddenly made aware of a scent.  
  
Strago said nothing; instead, to punctuate his point, he took advantage of their momentary distraction to encase another of their fellows in a huge block of ice. Behind him, greatly awed, Gully buried her head against his leg and watched his handiwork.  
  
There were ten of them left. Clearly, considered Strago, they came for the women; but to hell with that, I say. As they began to close in – slowly, and with extreme caution – Strago could hear them talking amongst one another, whispering as they went, those bearing female loads running their hands along the bodies of their squirming cargoes.  
  
"He can use magic, he must be brought back" "Yes, the master will demand it" "Yes, all magic must serve the master" "Yes, we owe our souls to him, and will bear for him a new generation of slaves" – this last line elicited incredible horror amongst the women, and they redoubled their efforts, to little avail – "We must have this one" "Yes, take him, and the girl too" and then they were on him.  
  
Watching through half-lidded eyes, propped up against the side of a hut, his blood seeping out in gallons upon the sand, Darren watched as the entire pack – for he could not liken them to humans – converged on Strago and Gully. Five strong hands, one of which was burnt to a crisp soon after the assault began, pulled the cagey mage down, casting powerful spells of unconsciousness to lighten the burden. The wounded man groaned and let his eyes droop, suddenly far too tired to allow such a burden upon himself.  
  
For his part, Strago never took his eyes off of Gully, who had been dragged down and pinned by her captors. She was screaming, the first noise Strago could ever recall her making. He wanted to summon his rage, to destroy them all, and save her – but he couldn't. The magicy wove over his body was too strong. Instead of rage, there was only the pang of failure, as Strago realized, once again, that he had failed his granddaughter.  
  
God, did he want to die.  
  
--  
  
When next Strago became aware, he knew that there was nobody left to him. Relm was gone, Gully was gone; everything was a haze, a. . . nothingness. He simply wanted to die. Nothing could ever fill that void. Left in the recesses of his mind, Strago curled up into a ball and wept loudly.  
  
But a voice interjected. It was soft, almost willowy.  
  
I'm here for you.  
  
Strago did not respond. He simply rocked back and forth on his heels. Nobody was there for him. He felt as helpless as a child.  
  
I'm here for you, always.  
  
"No, you aren't. Leave me alone." Strago tucked himself into a ball ever more tightly.  
  
Yes, I am. You need only give yourself over, and I'll fill you. I'll fill the gap. You just need to let me.  
  
Strago was silent. The voice was lying, and he knew it.  
  
Strago. Let me.  
  
The voice was changing. Softer, lighter, more. . . feminine. It sounded distinctly familiar.  
  
Strago could not help but look up.  
  
And there, amidst the darkness, was Relm. And Gully. Yet only one person, for they were one and the same: both lay within the other, overlapping and wavering, a single being yet divided in twain. Both incredulous and hopeful, Strago allowed his arms to fall away, gazing upon the two girls who were one.  
  
Strago. Let me. Let. . . us. We can fill you again.  
  
"Is this. . . is this real? Is this possible?" Strago could hardly choke back the tears. His feet remained firmly rooted to a floor that did not exist.  
  
Yes, it is. . . it has been granted us by a higher power. . . we can fill you, Strago. You need only to let us.  
  
Two voices. Relm and Gully. But was it Gully? How could it be, when she was utterly mute? For her scream at the last had allowed for no inflections of voice: how could she be speaking like this? Was it her soul conveying all that she wished to say, but could not? Did these two, these artists of a single being, really want to make him feel whole again. . .?  
  
Embrace us, Strago. You know you must, for we need you, too: we wish to become one with you. We need you, and you need us. Our souls shall fit together, a trinity of happiness. You need only to let us. Embrace us, Strago. . .  
  
And before he could respond, Strago was rooted no more; he stumbled blindly across the void, his motions drunken and desperate, a man searching frantically for purpose and sustenance. His life had been a desert, and now, these two, his granddaughters, were the oasis. His salvation.  
  
How could it be? a part of him screamed. But such resistance was quashed by pure instinct. He wanted, he needed. . . and then, his arms outstretched, he embraced his granddaughters.  
  
And then he realized the truth of it.  
  
"Relm doesn't speak like that. And Gully doesn't speak at all."  
  
But it was too late, and he knew it. His soul was now being filled by the creature he held, made whole and complete. But who was it? What had clutched its arms around this wizened old man?  
  
He looked. There was no Gully, no Relm.  
  
But there was a smile to greet him. A huge, rosy, malevolent smile.  
  
And laughter. Oh, such laughter.  
  
--  
  
End Note: I sure as HELL didn't think that would be as long as it was. And yet, I think it flawed; certainly, I imagine expanding on Strago's village life, and his relationship with Gully, would have been prudent. But, eh. Judging by what I recall, it's certainly an improvement from the original.  
  
Both times that I did this story, I found it somewhat of a dreary prospect, as I already know what has to happen to Strago. There can't be a happy ending to this story if I'm to do it right. With any luck, however, I'll manage to inject my usual doses of good humour into the other stories. 


	2. Harbourfront: The Tale of Sabin

Sabin was, at heart, forever optimistic. He always looked upon the bright side of things: and, perhaps belying his massive size and tough-guy air, he managed to distil in his personality a certain amount of wit.  
  
So, as he plummeted through the sky, blackened clouds rushing past, the whole world crumbling before his eyes, he somehow managed to make the best of it all with one simple sentence to himself:  
  
"Damn, I can see Figaro from here!"  
  
And then the sea ate him whole. Not that such things stopped the aptly named "Bear of Koltz", thus designated by his master: and as he would quite properly put it a year later, a little thing like the end of the world was nothing to him.  
  
--  
  
Such thoughts did little to comfort the bedraggled man, however, as he pulled himself from the sea and flopped up on a beach. He hadn't a clue where he was, nor did he care at the moment: indeed, or greater concern to Sabin was coughing up the ten gallons of water and seaweed he'd managed to gulp down. With several mighty heaves he expelled the vast majority of it, his coughs resounding up and down the desolate dunes. So mighty were his bellows that newly released demons, searching for prey, decided to look elsewhere for a meal. Essentially, and to his great comfort, Sabin was left alone.  
  
But, as he flopped onto his side, panting from his exertion, he realized that that was the problem: he was alone. Not a single familiar face had washed up alongside of him. Or so he thought, anyway: it should be noted that Cyan, currently battling valiantly against the tides, was but a kilometre down the shoreline. Within minutes he would be freed of his cumbersome armour and dragging himself into calmer straits. But his story is not this story, and the tale of the woeful knight shall have to wait for another time.  
  
Sabin rested a while, sliding his metallic battle claws off for comfort's sake. And yet, his body would not allow such a repose for very long, demanding within minutes – for his discipline as a martial artist allowed for no less – that he get up off his ass, and survey his surroundings.  
  
There were times that Sabin wanted to strangle his own instincts. They always managed to get in the way of having a good snooze.  
  
Naturally, body won out over mind, and Sabin, sore and soaked from head to toe, was on his feet and relieving himself into the sea. After drinking down so much water, it was, perhaps, to be expected.  
  
"Well," he chuckled to himself, "at least it wasn't salt water. I bet that'd burn." His rationality soon began to debate this point, informing the burly blonde that his organs tended to break down salt – but he simply told it to screw off, and revelled in his rather lame joke.  
  
The world was different. That much he could see. The sky, still fluctuating and swirling chaotically, had adopted a crimson hue, one that was steadily spreading to all corners of the globe. Off in the distance, Sabin could still hear – indeed, could even feel – the rumble of the continents speedily shifting into their new alignments, settling catastrophically in bizarre configurations. Even the grass and the plants were different, for they seemed to have lost all their vitality. Everything was steadily drooping. The normally crisp air was stale.  
  
After only an hour, the world had turned into a rotting corpse.  
  
After surveying this all, Sabin zipped up. It was all Kefka's fault, of course. He'd apparently been given the power of a god, despite their best efforts to stop them. The madman had, in essence, created his own world.  
  
After only an hour.  
  
"Shit," quoth Sabin, bitterly. He spat in the sand and rearmed himself. For, indeed, it was all very shitty. The world he'd known would never come back. Hell, for all Sabin knew, his friends could be dead.  
  
Sabin thought on that a moment. Their images, perhaps even their phantoms, floated through his brain, each touching his thoughts. He'd known them all, perhaps not intimately, but well enough: and he'd not wish death upon any one of them. From his well-known brother to the little punk artist girl that he'd only become acquainted with for the sum total of three days, they all held a place in his heart. Places that, in some cases - perhaps even all cases – may have remained vacant forevermore. They could all be dead.  
  
So Sabin thought. On it all.  
  
And then, he laughed. And laughed. And continued to laugh until he was hoarse.  
  
To think on this occurrence, one might consider Sabin to have gone insane from despair: however, it was not so. The very tone of his laughs, absolutely jovial and full, carrying equal portions of brightness and cheer, said otherwise. It was good humour, pure and simple. The very air, forbidding and gloomy, seemed to draw back in horror at his energy, fearful that so brilliant a man might still exist in this newly desolate world.  
  
"Dead? Yeeeeeeeeah right!" Sabin howled. "Not a one of those stubborn buggers bit the bullet! What a stupid-ass thought!"  
  
Thus freed of any sorrow, tears of joviality streaming down his face, Sabin wandered away from the beach, into this harsh new world of his. And every shadow that had originally borne down on him, pulled up on the shore as he was, seemed now to cringe out of his way.  
  
--  
  
As fate would have it, Sabin headed away from Cyan. Both men had managed to find their way to the small continent on which Maranda, Jidoor, and Zozo were now situated. Sabin headed north, along the long, thing corridor towards the bulk of civilization; Cyan, bereft of his armour, headed south. They would not see each other even once during their respective tenures on the island.  
  
--  
  
Furthermore, Sabin managed, through his incredible knack for navigation, to miss Jidoor entirely. Fighting his way through the hostile wilderness for a good seven days, he skirted along the coastline – the only path that would allow him to completely neglect seeing the big city lights of populous-rich Jidoor – and only wound up travelling inland when he noticed the curve of a somewhat diminutive mountain range. Instinctively heralding back to the days of his training, Sabin made a direct beeline to those mountains, carving an easy path through sparse forests and occasional bands of demons. The mountains, however small, still proved relatively barren and inaccessible, their higher paths too steeply located for Sabin's current location. So, he followed the base of the range for a further five days, making far better time than he earlier had.  
  
Come the end of his journey, beleaguered and weary, marred with the many scrapes and bruises that came to travellers in those days, he witnessed a sight that managed to invoke in him one powerful, singular response.  
  
At the end of his journey, he came to Zozo.  
  
His response?  
  
". . . to hell with this place, I'm safer out there." And thus, he continued journeying.  
  
--  
  
It had come to pass that, shortly before the time of the great shift of the continents, the inhabitants of Zozo had constructed a sort of harbour. To even consider it a 'sort' of harbour is to be generous: indeed, it was little more than a shack and a pier, complete with two sailing boats, neither of which looked particularly trustworthy. One, dubbed the 'Pride of Zoz' – the O had been accidentally painted over – bore several conspicuous holes in the hull, one of which was of a considerable size. The other, 'Sex Master', had been called as such by its incredibly vain former owner; although, being a citizen of Zozo, it's hard to tell whether there was any merit in the boast or not. Ironically enough, the 'Sex Master' bore only half a mast.  
  
Incredibly ramshackle and looking ready to fall apart, the whole conglomeration that was mistakenly considered a harbour had managed – and this is sure evidence that the gods have a sense of humour – to drag itself along with Zozo during the cataclysm. The boats, somehow safely moored, both survived with only a token amount of water floating about in their cargo holds. Its two attendants, Gus and Randall, had slept through the entire debacle, only discovering the change when Randall decided it was time to awake and use the can. Neither particularly cared about their new circumstances, since, indeed, these circumstances were identical to the old ones.  
  
They'd had, since their grand opening, precisely zero customers. Nobody wanted to go near the men, let alone the boats. Yet out front Gus had deigned it necessary to paint gigantic signs, proclaiming that 'The Zozo Marina is the choice of Emperor Geshtahl' and 'We have a safety record second to none'. Which, when considered, is quite true, as nobody else fell so low in safety standards as these two boobs.  
  
It was this poor sight that Sabin beheld on the thirteenth day of his journey. He'd already decided, upon realizing where he was, that his friends were probably anywhere but: and if he were to make any progress in finding them, he'd no doubt have to make his way to new territory. In other words, a different island. And how else would he do that but by locating a port?  
  
Squinting at the tiny harbour from atop a hill, Sabin had his doubts, but decided to quash them: one only receives great boons by taking great risks. He started making his way down towards the shack.  
  
Randall was out front, frying up a sumptuous breakfast of dead slugs and a few miscellaneous bird eggs. Underneath his weather beaten frying pan was a roaring fire, perhaps the only thing that looked professionally done in the whole place. Tasting a simmering slug tentatively, he decided the concoction needed a bit of flavour, and spat mightily into the middle of the pan. His burbling spittle ran slowly amongst the food, bequeathing. . . well, never mind. You all get the point. From within the shack erupted an enormous fart, let fly by Gus, who yet dozed.  
  
Apart from his fire making abilities, Randall had one other positive attribute: he possessed hawk like vision. So, as Sabin slowly trudged down the hill, his bulky travelling sack slung over one muscular shoulder, spiky hair waving in the dead breeze, Randall spied him from the corner of one eye. He gasped, snatching up ample amounts of air and heaving suddenly at the exertion. With a cough he collapsed on the ground, calling out vainly for Gus to come a'runnin'. Gus, naturally, continued to slumber, letting off only another thunderclap in response.  
  
Sabin, noting the fact that the dirty looking beanpole of a man in front of the shack was choking on the ground, broke into a powerful run, his legs carrying him quickly across the barren plain towards the sea. He winced as Randall came within mere inches of rolling himself into the fire, then sighed with relief and continued running as the man decided to head in the opposite direction. With a loud thud, Randall propelled himself into the side of the shack, knocking himself senseless.  
  
Eventually arriving, Sabin grabbed Randall's shoulder, dragging him onto his back and calling out a worried "You okay, man?" Randall, somewhat dazed, finally managed to catch his breath, and coughed out a weary "no", but rising to his feet regardless. Sabin gave him a light pat on the back and helped him up. Hacking up another wad of mucus, Randall leaned against the shack and waved at Sabin.  
  
Sabin stepped back and scratched his head. "Uh, hi."  
  
Randall, chest calmed at last, returned the greeting in his own fashion. "Ya."  
  
Sabin blinked. ". . . okay then. Is this a harbour, by any chance?"  
  
Randall shook his head adamantly. "No." With a single, gnarled fingernail, he tapped a nearby sign. It read, "Zozo Harbourfront – We Guarantee Your Satisfaction!"  
  
Sabin looked at the sign a moment. His eyebrow flew up altogether involuntarily. "But. . . that says it is. Right?"  
  
"Does not." Randall ahem-ed lightly and stretched his gangly limbs, peering at his breakfast; it was now scattered amongst the dirt. "Whadda great day!" he proclaimed happily, gathering up the still sizzling slugs and plopping them back in the pan without bothering to scrape off the grime. Sabin winced at the sight but said nothing, instead turning back to his point.  
  
"But it does. Like, right there. Can't you read?"  
  
"Of course I can't! It does not! What are you, stupid or sumthin'?"  
  
Gus could be heard within, roused by their conversation, slowly lumbering towards the entrance to the shack.  
  
"But you have. . ." and then Sabin stopped cold. He took another look at the sign. "Zozo Harbourfront". Zozo. He smacked his head, suddenly feeling very stupid.  
  
"Oh shit. Not guys from Zozo."  
  
A thin, angry voice erupted from the shack, and the door flew open, smacking Randall squarely in the face and sending his breakfast flying once again. "The hell is Zozo? Some kinda weed?" Out stepped a tiny man, almost fully three feet in height, wearing a grimy bandana and bearing on his belt tools of all sorts. His face was decorated by a long, curling moustache. "Man, I'm absolutely stuffed. Where's breakfast?"  
  
Sabin gritted his teeth. "Tall and small. I should've figured this would happen."  
  
Spinning on one heel, Gus roared in a squeak. "I'm as tall as a damned mountain! Don't you forget it! I love you, man!" and with that he charged at Sabin, fists swinging. With a casual motion Sabin cut out his legs from beneath him and caught Gus with one hand, setting the man back on his feet within seconds, safely diffused.  
  
Gus blinked, somewhat confused. Randall was licking his slugs up from amongst the reedy blades of grass. Sabin, already mightily annoyed but deciding this dump was his best bet, realized he'd have to forego the usual rules of sanity to deal with these two.  
  
Gus spun again. He eyed Sabin incredulously. "Man, you suck. I could kick your ass! Man!" Stepping forward, he shook Sabin's hand vigorously. The feel of his skin made hackles rise on Sabin's own, so clammy was it.  
  
Sabin forced a grin. "Th. . . thanks. Uh, you gonna help your pal out there?"  
  
"Sure am, man!" Gus proclaimed loudly, and then remained rooted in place. Randall was heaving about on the ground again, perhaps choking on one of his delicacies. Sabin made sure to watch from the corner of his eye, lest Randall roll into the embers.  
  
"Riiiiiight then. Listen. I need a boat. You got one?" Sabin asked, peering at the boats that sat floating in the purplish waters.  
  
"Of course not. Whaddya think we are, man, a harbour?" Gus scoffed.  
  
"Sure. Gotcha. How much is fare gonna be? To, say, the next nearest island?"  
  
Gus considered this a moment. "Three hairs of a dead man's beard, no less."  
  
Sabin shuddered. "How the hell am I supposed to do this? Do I have to start at the lowest damned monetary denominator and work my way up until you agree?"  
  
"Shit no, man!"  
  
And thus began a very long afternoon. After two strenuous hours of negotiating – Sabin was awed by how many lies Gus could spew in a limited amount of time – they settled on two thousand. Gus accepted the fee with a hearty "this ain't near enough, man! Shit!" Throughout the process, Randall aided his fellows by interjecting with helpful proverbs that had no bearing on it all and were, on the whole, all lies anyway. "The intelligent man will empty his pockets and walk away" was one of Sabin's favourites, alongside "Gestahl say soldier with no armour have urinary problem".  
  
The labour complete, Sabin finally had enough sense of mind to ask their names. Naturally, Gus was Randall and Randall was Gus.  
  
--  
  
Their departure time was, as quoted by 'Admiral' Gus, "tomorrow". So they immediately set out in the "Pride of Zoz", plying the seas at record low speeds. Sabin couldn't help but try and punch Gus when he received the following reply to his inquiry on whether they knew where they were going or not:  
  
"Of course, man! Shit! Trust me!"  
  
--  
  
Their voyage would last a devastating seventeen days. Sabin spent his time attempting, largely in vain, to avoid the dynamic duo. Randall, the 'wiser' of the two, spent his time bequeathing on Sabin more nuggets of knowledge than the big man thought could ever existed. Those that were lies generally bore no merit even when converted in his mind; those that had no discernable lie were, for the most part, just plain gibberish anyway. Gus instructed Sabin on the fine art of fishing, one that he did not excel at in the least – even after sorting out the lies, Sabin found nothing worth listening to strewn forth by the man. It was only through the vigilance of Sabin that they actually managed to get anywhere, as both men had a tendency to nod off at the wheel.  
  
One event of particular note was their attempt at a card game:  
  
"No, you son of a bitch, that's a two, not an ace!"  
  
"It is so! Man!"  
  
"Solitary dove say, never cross paths with the consummate shopper. I'm playing the King of Rubies."  
  
"There's no such goddamned suit as the Ruby! For the love of –"  
  
And so it went. Sabin hoped, practically prayed, for some manner of sea beast to swallow them all up, and end his misery. For a month after his journey with the gruesome twosome, his normally optimistic spirit waned into outright pessimism, and he considered petitioning Kefka to bomb the hell out of Zozo with his supernatural powers.  
  
--  
  
The sight of land brought to Sabin tears of joy. He'd never seen so lovely a thing. It was like some huge, gem-encrusted land of gold, one bereft of lies and fish and assholes who perpetually smelled of old cheese. So great was his joy that, forgoing a traditional landing, Sabin simply leapt over the side of the boat and swam the rest of the way. Sadly enough, he made better time than the 'Pride of Zoz', which lumbered along without a captain at the helm until Randall sleepily assumed the wheel and steered the boat into a collision course with a partially submerged tree.  
  
Somehow, they both made it back to Zozo in safety.  
  
--  
  
Sabin thus began a very long, arduous journey from that point on – landed near the tower of the Cult of Kefka as he was – one fraught with dangers, and peril, and little hope of seeing his friends again. Yet, he endured it all, keeping with him a high heart. But always, for years to come, his nightmares would harken back to the time in his life when, for seventeen long, deathly days, suicide seemed a viable option. 


	3. Search for Purpose: The Tale of Locke, P...

"Holy shit!" was all exasperated lips managed to utter before being catapulted, alongside the rest of the body, down a twisted dirt tunnel. A light blue bandana whipped about in its wake, struggling to maintain a death grip on its skull of choice. Sweat poured forth in thick streams, moistening rocky floors long since devoid of water. And there was the sound of heavy, heavy breathing, followed closely by a destructive rumble.  
  
The incessant query "Why me, why me, why me. . ." was quickly swallowed up by that rumble.  
  
Why, indeed, him? For it was a he: to be more specific, this voice belonged to self-proclaimed treasure hunter Locke Cole. A recent divorcee from the world of light and fresh air, the young man currently found himself charging with wild abandon through the hollows of the earth, followed close behind by some unspeakable evil.  
  
Had Indiana Jones existed, Locke surely would have identified with him. Instead, however, he simply wondered how the hell he'd gotten into such a mess in the first place.  
  
--  
  
Upon awaking after the end of everything, his arm broken after having been flung bodily from the water into a nearby tree, Locke had slowly made his way from the seaside to the fortuitously close town of Nikeah. Upon arriving, he'd discovered a great deal of destruction: buildings collapsed, people dead, and the harbour half swallowed up by the sea. It would take seven months of restructuring before the Nikeans managed to restore their port livelihood. The beleaguered thief rested there for three weeks, healing his arm with weak restorative spells – he'd sadly neglected to learn anything past the rudiments, preferring instead highly destructive, flashy magic – and aided in the restoration as much as he could.  
  
Upon recuperating, Locke bid farewell to the still ramshackle town, heading south along the curve of the Serpent Trench. Using his considerable stealth skills, Locke managed to forego the majority of potential battles, thus saving his own hide; his combat skills, though polished, would not have been up to three weeks of constant assault. For a while he skirted into the mountain range that rose in the belly of the serpent, but decided, upon witnessing the steady construction of a large, black tower in the midst of the stony peaks, that discretion would be the better part of valour. And so he returned to the beaten path of dead roots and monstrous demons.  
  
What was his goal in these endeavours? It was not to find his friends. No, that would simply have been a boon: at current, he looked instead to witness the lay of the land, as it was apparent to all, now, that the world had changed greatly. Things had to be surveyed. The situation investigated. No battle against the newly anointed god of the world would go forward properly without such preparations. But it mattered not, as Locke did not encounter a single former ally in his travels anyway.  
  
His travels carried him further south, and brought Locke to the spot where a bridge would, within a month, connect one continent to another. At current it was only half complete. Most onlookers considered the architect mad, as he spent his days in the wilderness, tools in hand, steadily constructing his masterpiece while vicious creatures roamed to and fro around his hastily assembled shack of a dwelling. Locke bypassed him with an outwardly spoken word of encouragement and an inwardly whispered comment along the lines of "you crazy bastard". He would rescind this opinion when next he returned.  
  
Travelling east next – as it was, indeed, the only available path – Locke spent a long, trying twenty days picking his way through the relatively barren wastes of the serpent's tail. There was little in the way of hiding spots, thus forcing the treasure hunter into more battles than he would have preferred. Had it not been for his knack of locating good shelters to dwell in for the night, ones obviously safe from harm, Locke would never have completed his journey in one piece.  
  
On completing a short, northward hop, Locke came across the shattered ruins of Mobliz, still steaming from the swathe cut by Kefka's 'Light of Judgement'. The children of the town hid so effectively that he hadn't the slightest clue of their existence, and simply considered it a dead town. Terra had yet to take up residence amongst them, though Locke only missed her by a span of two weeks and four days.  
  
Upon learning that Mobliz was, effectively, the end of the road, Locke was heard to curse mightily. The noise managed to attract a very ugly local, the emerald demon Phunbaba, who drove Locke back onto the road with a considerable bellow of his own.  
  
And so, trail-weary and tired, Locke started back. Now strengthened with both foreknowledge of the dangers ahead and a new sheath of muscle on his arms, he managed the trip in a scant seventeen days. It was a decided improvement over the original twenty-four days.  
  
Upon witnessing the bridge, Locke was seen to boldly kiss the architect, a greying man of fifty who, much to Locke's chagrin, jovially slipped him the tongue and grabbed a hold of Locke's buttocks. This conveyed upon Locke a maxim that he retained to his dying day: "beware the lonely artiste". Freshly robbed of his homosexual innocence, or at least a portion of it, Locke continued across the bridge.  
  
Following a path that had since become fairly distinct by the pounding of Chocobo feet, Locke wandered along the curve of a newly formed lake, coming upon Tzen within two days. As luck would have it, he managed to involuntarily avoid Relm, who, astride a Chocobo, was headed north to Nikeah.  
  
Throughout his many journeys, Locke maintained relatively high spirits. That was quite an accomplishment, considering the world in which he now found himself. He managed this through maintaining a sense of purpose: it was his duty, for the good of the group, to create an account of all that he'd seen. Perhaps, he thought, he'd be the first man to successfully map the new world. And wouldn't that just line his coffers with gold? Oh yes. People would kill for that kind of thing.  
  
Yet, underneath it all laid a sort of constant ache, indescribably nagging. At times, walking in his lonesome, Locke would become incredibly depressed. He would think of all those he'd left behind, all those he'd failed, on that bloody, gruesome day. . . he'd been walking for months now, it seemed: how had he not found any of them? Was he really the only one still alive? Logic seemed to scream nay at that thought, but. . . was it possible?  
  
Had he failed those two that he'd promised to protect yet again? Terra, who he'd come to see as a sister, the essential part that he'd never known before. . . and Celes. . . what was Celes? Was she another Rachel?  
  
And when he thought of Rachel, and then Celes, both converging together into the same spot in his mind, he felt himself a traitor to both at the same time. To whom were his loyalties due? Frustration ran rampant. He didn't know, and figured he'd never be completely sure. It was all he could do not to break down and cry amongst those endless fields of ruin, brain torn.  
  
So he just kept walking. Surveying. It was his endless cause, to provide information for those allies who may not even have been alive.  
  
But, when the allure of potential reaches one's nose, they feel compelled to follow it, particularly if they are of an enterprising nature. Locke fell into this department. And so it came to pass in Tzen that a fellow "treasure hunter" by the name of Keye Onex – a wiry man with an eye patch and long, oily black hair – came into contact with Locke. Acquaintances of old, they managed to spot one another as Keye danced atop a table at the 'Sinful Tzen', drunk out of his mind. Upon sobering up an hour later, the two sat and reminisced about the good 'ol days, and of ventures both gained and lost. It was Keye who had introduced Locke to the Returners, as the decidedly less scrupulous man had gouged the small rebel group for his services as a spy and saboteur. And, as the night waned, Keye allowed Locke into his confidence – knowing full well that the occasionally naïve younger man would not break it – and described his current venture.  
  
It had become readily apparent to almost every person on the planet that the geography of the planet had been irreparably changed as a result of Kefka's meddling. Continents, once few and large, were now split and divided; mountains had fallen, seas emerged, and towns shifted; and as a result of it all, the world was now a place of magic, and demons long thought dead. All in all, it seemed a wholly negative change.  
  
However, from the stance of the profitable, circumstances were different. A plethora of once obscured locales, hidden under the recesses of the earth, had emerged into the red light of day once more. And with them invariably came their age-old treasures and secrets, secrets from the War of the Magi and beyond. Being a treasure hunter in this era of radical change was an incredible boon, so long as bold hearts stood firm and braved the dangers of the darkness.  
  
Keye, bearing contacts throughout the world – being a professional thief with forty years experience inevitably granted one considerable resources – had come to know of a recently unearthed cavern near Thamasa. Once considered a mere myth by the locals, the so-called "Fire Caves of the Magi" was proven as fact when the earth covering its entrance gave way as Thamasa sailed out into the midst of the ocean. Several locals had already entered the cavern; not a single one, according to Keye's source, had re- emerged. Naturally, Keye chalked this up to a lack of caution, or "professionalism". Such a cave should, by all rights, bear considerable riches.  
  
Locke was uninterested. Completely and utterly. He had other work to do. And he said as such, citing the fact that both he and his friends were currently engaged in kicking the ass of the world's newly self-appointed deity. Keye inquired as to his friend's whereabouts; Locke simply replied with "I'm playing scout right now".  
  
Keye had long since realized that he would need a partner in his newest endeavour. He'd long since known that Thamasa was the town of the lost Mage Warriors; and if such people were having difficulty with the cavern, then a mere thief would be hard pressed alone. So running into Locke turned out to be a stroke of luck. But all would be for naught if the little punk were unwilling.  
  
So he decided to toss in another incentive. Something too tempting to pass up. He knew of Locke's woeful past – Keye had long since made a point not to take on any partners whom he hadn't checked out – and was fully aware of his complications with Rachel.  
  
Local legends had long since pinpointed the cavern as the birthplace of the legendary Phoenix, master of death and rebirth. Whether it could incite others into a similar process of resurrection mattered little to Keye's plans, as he knew tossing this particular bait in front of Locke's nose would get a response.  
  
His plan worked perfectly. Locke immediately leapt at the prospect, without Keye even having to so much as hint at the repercussions of locating the Phoenix. Whether or not Keye would actually allow Locke to use the Phoenix – if that was, in fact, the treasure of the cave – was not, at current, an object. For his own part, Locke managed to maintain at least a token amount of scepticism in regards to his new business partner as he heartily shook hands. His mission, his purpose, had suddenly been swept aside, all for the sake of his old love.  
  
They set off the next day, making tracks to Albrook on Chocobos. Through mutual agreement, they gave Kefka's grotesque monument to his own enormity an extremely wide berth. It had been rumoured that bizarre demonic concoctions kept watch at the base, and neither thief particularly wished to verify the claim. Within a day they made it to Albrook. Throughout the trip they planned and schemed, either exclaiming excitedly that they'd become the most renowned treasure hunters in the world with the haul they were bound to find in the cavern. Neither Locke nor Keye decided it worth mentioning that they had no intention of sharing: Locke if it were the Phoenix, and Keye if it were absolutely anything of abnormal value. Chartering a boat to Thamasa – it had taken nearly a month for the adrift town to be rediscovered – by the rest of civilization – the pair steamed their way to the mage town. The journey took three days in all, the passengers weathering choppy waters and several fierce encounters with sea serpents and other aquatic fiends. The end result was a disgruntled crew of cranky seamen who, before allowing their charges to disembark, demanded double their fare if they to be convinced to wait around. Wishing only to get off the damned boat, Locke and Keye agreed to the conditions, also secretly agreeing between themselves to rob the crew blind after the entire job was done. Though a man of morals, Locke was still a thief.  
  
After a brief stopover in Thamasa – Locke, much to his dismay, found Strago's house to be ominously vacant – they started out towards the cave. Led by a local guide, they made good time, traversing the sparse forestland of the continent and coming upon the mouth of the cave within a few hours. After being amply paid, their guide, a jittery youth with quaking limbs, beat a hasty retreat. They expected not to see him on the return trip, but that mattered little, as Locke had always possessed a good head for geography. They would not get lost.  
  
Granted, Locke may not have made it back, had Keye anything to say about it. His onetime friend meant nothing under the weight of riches.  
  
The Fire Caves, for their part, lived up to the name. Huge clouds of billowing sulphur regularly issued forth from the split crags in the rock. The heat, even in the entrance, was well nigh insufferable: both men opted to abandon their less necessary garments, keeping only the protection of light armour. Locke, too, kept his bandana, as it had become a staple of his character, and he was loathe to part from it. Thus prepared, they began a tentative descent into the bowels of the earth, Locke with his daggers ready, and Keye bearing a wicked crossbow, complete with magically infused ice arrows.  
  
The going was tough. Clean air was sometimes lacking, leaving both men wavering and weakened. The monsters, obviously not afflicted as such, were surprisingly powerful, and Locke had to make use of his woefully poor restorative abilities often in order to keep them both going. Fortuitously enough, however, his highly destructive spells of ice and cold proved highly effective, especially alongside Keye's arrows. There were times, however, when the heat and air made both aiming and concentrating tough – and the long, winding tunnels of blackened rock and dirt made the entire trip seem excruciatingly long. There appeared to be no end to their dolorous enterprise.  
  
After nearly an hour of slow progress, however, the two emerged from the tunnel, coming upon a hugely emptied space of cavern. At the bottom of it all lay the source of the heat: a gigantic inferno of ash and magma, boiling incessantly and sending cloudy steam up into the heavens. Considering how far down one had to go to reach the magma, Locke surmised that it had to possess an unfathomably high temperature. Amidst the lake of fire, raised high upon an outcropping and extending back into the wall of the cavern, lay a highly ornate temple. Huge pillars supported the roof from caving in, neatly framing the swirling arches that topped the door of the place. But none of this caught Locke's eye in particular: rather, he looked at the decorations that lined each work of stone.  
  
There were birds carved into everything. Huge, sweeping birds, with gigantic tails and gaping maws. Judging by the shape of each bird, moreover, Locke could not help but conclude that this was the temple of the Phoenix. And such a thought brought to him incredible excitement, as he seemed to hold the salvation of his beloved in his hands.  
  
The memory of Celes, whom he had slowly come to love, slipped through the cracks, and vanished. Now there was room only for Rachel.  
  
Like any ancient ruin worth its salt, the entrance was guarded by fiery demons. But, well tempered by their previous encounters and suddenly flushed with the thought of success, neither Locke nor Keye felt the least bit intimidated. They'd grown quite used to their circumstances. Consequently, said demons soon found themselves either pinned to the walls of the temple, or sent plummeting to a blazing death. Not even monsters bred amongst fire could withstand such heat as was emanating from the bowels of the cavern.  
  
The doors to the temple were huge, and wrought out of thick metal. As such, they were incredibly hot, thus requiring the pair to look for a means of opening them. Locke hardly wanted to introduce such a drastic drop in heat from using his ice spells on the doors, as doing so would probably invite a catastrophe. After ten odd minutes of searching, Keye located a large stone button, offset from the door by about ten meters and hidden under an ornate carving of the Phoenix. A single push flung the doors open.  
  
Thus they entered, both more than a little weary, into the halls of the birthplace of the Phoenix. Only one would emerge from those same doors come the eventful climax of their adventure.  
  
NOTE: This. . . is getting long. So I'll split it up into two chapters. No harm in that. 


	4. Search for Purpose: The Tale of Locke, P...

Entering into the temple was like falling from the depths of hell into the middle of the arctic. As soon as both men passed the threshold of the doorway, their breaths were literally taken away: both collapsed from the pure shock to their systems. Locke blacked out immediately, while Keye managed, through some miracle of nature, to keep a tenuous hold on his consciousness. He gasped loudly, knees hitting the floor harshly, while Locke simply slumped forward and smacked his face against the cool, polished marble.  
  
Their surroundings were something out of a dream. The interior of the temple was truly enormous, and decorated with hundreds of brazen images depicting the Phoenix, ranging from ornate statues to mere wall carvings. A pair of colonnades, stretching from one end of the grand hall to the other, seemed to be comprised of pillars bearing long, entwining serpentine creatures.  
  
And there were stairs. Endless stairs. Running in every direction, fleeing down blackened corridors and twisting stone passages. Even the main staircase, running up a central path between the colonnades, didn't seem to lead to any particularly conspicuous regions of the temple.  
  
In other words, proceeding deeper into the temple was like walking blind into a snowstorm. They could end up anywhere.  
  
Well. Keye would, anyway; he had no intention of leaving Locke around any longer. The younger man had served his purpose. It was plainly obvious to Keye that this place bore riches, and he had no intention of sharing even the slightest piece of gold. Pushing hard against the ground, he hoisted himself up drunkenly, still dazed from the temperature change. His fingers fumbled towards his discarded crossbow that had slid some distance away, the entire process causing his disoriented body to give out again. He collapsed and clapped his chin hard against the ground, grunting. Nearby, Locke began to stir, rolling to one side and twitching slightly.  
  
There was no time to waste. Keye, summoning up as much willpower as humanly possible, made a mighty lunge for his bow. With a thud he hit the ground, hands firmly grasping the death-dealing mechanism. His body was getting looser, more malleable; soon, the incessant buzz of pain flowing through his legs would be gone. He would be standing. And then, his old friend would die.  
  
But fortune would not look lightly upon this treachery, and introduced a new element: from one of the side passages, a high, piercing shriek issued forth with concussive intensity. Keye felt as though his eardrums might explode simply listening to it, and buckled; Locke, unconsciously registering the sound as a source of great pain, curled himself up into a ball and struggled to return to the world. A deep, low rumble, one of ominous tone and hidden intent, followed closely behind the sound. Obviously, something was coming.  
  
Keye was no fool. He knew that lingering to kill Locke would potentially see the end of him. So, stumbling onto his legs, he made a staggering dash for a random side passage, praying that lady luck would not abandon him a second time. His heels vanished into the darkness, and were the first sight Locke managed to glimpse as his eyes reopened. Confused by the combination of rumbles, pained ears, and a retreating comrade, Locke sat up quickly, and regretted his action with the same amount of speed: his eyes fuzzed over and went black, stars dancing to and fro behind newly closed eyelids. He fell back again, his system simply too overwhelmed by all the shocks administered to it.  
  
His thoughts became simple. Complex formulations seemed far too exhausting: instead, Locke preferred to run straightforward ideas through his head, such as "I've failed her again" and "this cool floor feels nice". Death quickly became an inevitability, something so mundane as reading the morning paper. He'd accepted it so fast that the prospect of an end to his life, which, he admitted now, was utterly miserable, appeared as a blessing. Not quite suicidal, but, close enough.  
  
Death was not coming. The gods, or fate, or whatever it may be, smiled on Locke that day; for instead of dying, he found himself gliding across the floor, propelled mere centimetres above the marble by some unknown force. It was like some bizarre, invisible river, bearing Locke swiftly around one pillar and down one of the dozens of staircases. It took him a minute or two before his brain, resigned to forever be silenced, clicked in to this new development, and he sat up, far less scattered in thought that before. One final scream filled his head as he unwillingly fled down a hallway.  
  
In fact, he felt entirely refreshed, as though the mystical flow was both carrying and rejuvenating him at once. All pain fled from his worn limbs; his vision cleared; even his clothing, which bore burn marks and numerous tatters, seemed to repair itself under the influence of. . . whatever it was. Locke decided it was in his best interests to find out, lest his saviour turn out to be a hidden enemy.  
  
One thing was clear, however: whatever it was that had been approaching, bearing that insidious scream, was now long gone. Locke sailed through long, glistening corridors, all bearing torches that threw off no heat: indeed, the entire temple seemed to take on the atmosphere of a clear Autumn day, only a little chilly while remaining still comfortable to the active soul. And ever, on all sides, was the Phoenix, declaring loudly and in a highly artistic rendering that this was the domain of the deathless bird.  
  
Locke was carried for hours. Or so it seemed, anyway; the halls continued onwards forever, stretching out under the earth like the roots of a tree. Locke had no idea whether he'd ever be leaving again, and despite several shouted inquiries, never received an answer to his question. His fate was simply to wait until the end of his bizarre journey.  
  
One thing, however, remained perfectly clear to him: Keye would never be leaving. He still had the screaming horror on his tail. Bereft of magic as he was, Locke suspected that his so-called 'comrade' would stand no chance against the thing that was giving chase. And even if he did manage to get away, Locke decided that the puzzling nature of these stone tunnels would leave him at a loss as to how he might escape.  
  
It seemed an eternity before Locke became aware of a change in his situation. The walls, full and strong as they were, steadily began to lose their cohesion. They turned from utterly opaque to somewhat translucent, and through the vanishing pillars Locke could see a field of stars on all sides. The walls seemed to waver, as though unstable, and all that was uniform and real slowly ebbed out of existence.  
  
Locke was surrounded by the universe. Engulfed by it. He was lost amongst it, floating aimlessly – or so it seemed to him. For he continued to move, even though he had no way to tell he really was moving, as the stars all seemed to wheel around him in a cosmic dance. Everything but him was in motion, and he sat amongst it, utterly dumbfounded by the sight. He felt incredibly small.  
  
Soon, however, his sense of locomotion returned, and it brought with it a profound sense of dread in his mind. He was indeed moving towards something. One of the stars, originally just another pinpoint in the epic display, had begun to hurtle towards him. It grew steadily, evolving from a tiny speck to a flaming ball of ill portent. Locke seemed to be aimed towards the very centre of it, to be swallowed by the twisting, roiling, superheated gasses that made the magma of the cavern he'd recently departed from pale in comparison.  
  
He tried to stop, to slow down, to do anything. His fingers frantically dragged against nothingness, seeking purchase and finding nothing. Death did not come as easily this time, for Locke was fully conscious; he wanted no part of dying, as he still had things to do. But his fate seemed already sealed. The sun loomed, ever greater, ever brighter, soon blinding the luckless thief. He covered his eyes and prayed for mercy.  
  
It came. As the sun flashed, engulfing Locke, piercing even through his eyelids, he suddenly found himself falling, thrown from his invisible ride and back into the real world. He tumbled down, down onto the cold marble floor of the temple once more, head more than a little dazzled. All around him rose huge, spiralling columns, perhaps a little too decadent for his own tastes. The walls were covered in more Phoenix figures than he would have deemed possible, as they managed also to extend up to the ceiling. And amidst it all, looming in the centre of the room, was an emerald pedestal. Atop the pedestal lay what seemed, from a distance, to be a cracked orb of sorts. Pieces of it lay strewn about both on and below the pedestal.  
  
Rising slowly, almost tentatively, Locke checked his surroundings for any immediate threats. There seemed to be nothing of worry; so, ever so cautiously, he began to tip-toe his way across the floor, displaying his keen thieving instincts distinctly. He was determined not to be caught off guard.  
  
Nothing stopped his progress, however, and within a minute of silent movement Locke found himself beside the pedestal, his fingers softly caressing the outside of the orb. Or, to be more precise, the egg: for Locke had already deemed it as such. This had evidently been the birthplace of the Phoenix, or at least it had in this world, for the Phoenix was an eternal being. There was no way of knowing where it had come from before choosing its current form.  
  
Locke felt a brief moment of intense excitement well up in his heart. Was this it? Could Rachel's malady be cured with his discovery? But no, it was not so: for this was simply the egg, not the creature itself. An empty shell would heal nobody. There wasn't even any of the bird's down littering the insides of the dull orange vessel.  
  
Looking around, however, Locke quickly came to the conclusion that there was nowhere else to go, except back the way he came. And would that even be a viable course of action any longer? He had no idea if whatever had swept him down here would take him back up. For all he knew, this room of birth may just have become his tomb.  
  
But no. This seemed ridiculous to him. Why go to such lengths to show him this? There was no point to it: he simply could have been killed by whatever beast it was that had been pursuing Keye. Was there any reason? Why did it matter?  
  
"Because you are the one to avenge us, young one."  
  
Locke whirled with ferocious speed, his daggers out and poised to attack, within an instant. A piece of egg he'd been cupping in one hand was sent flying into a pillar, where it shattered. His steely grey eyes narrowed in concentration, searching out his potential attacker. But the sight he beheld instantly stole away his urge to battle.  
  
Behind him stood the Phoenix. This he knew for a fact, even though the creature his eyes gazed upon was not its form: for the figure he saw that day was none other than his beloved Rachel. But it was not her, this he knew, for this creature was practically brimming with fiery light. It – or she – or whatever one may call such things – smiled lightly, and only then did Locke notice that the intensity of that light was faded. Unearthly. Is essence, of the spiritual realm.  
  
Locke swore that he was seeing a ghost. He wasn't far off, either.  
  
"I apologize for using this form, but I decided it would be the most prudent way of communicating. Appearing to you as a gigantic bird would not have instilled any trust in the situation, I think, in your case." The Phoenix closed its eyes, smiling sadly, and approached Locke. He saw its figure waver slightly as it moved, creating the odd effect of a double image.  
  
"Moreover, you'll have to forgive me for another transgression. . . I took the liberty of reading your mind as I guided you down here. . . you may consider it a violation of your privacy, but, I had to verify whether or not I was correct in my assumptions."  
  
Locke, his throat suddenly very dry, managed at last to utter words in reply. "A... assumptions? Assumptions about what?"  
  
The Phoenix seated herself upon the floor, alighting against the marble with grace beyond that of any ordinary woman. Locke could barely restrain his tears at witnessing Rachel move and speak again, and had to constantly remind himself that this was not Rachel at all. Her very voice mannerisms, being soft and gentile, contrasted deeply with the powerful confidence Rachel had always managed to display.  
  
"About your character. Your motives. I peered into your heart as you entered my temple, and it seemed sufficient for my purposes; however, I required a deeper look into your psyche to accurately trust you." She brushed her hair aside. "Fortuitously enough, you surpassed my expectations."  
  
Locke slowly lowered his daggers. "Oh. Great." Their sharpened edges slowly dipped back into their sheathes. "Well. I'm guessing you have something planed for me to do, then."  
  
"I do indeed." The Phoenix, spreading her gown across the floor – it was the same gown Rachel had worn on one of their more extravagant dates – stretched her legs. It struck Locke as oddly lacking in femininity, considering her personality thus far. "You see, I'm not really the Phoenix. Not the current one, anyway. Rather, I am the cast of personality of an older Phoenix, one that has already fallen into dust. For that is the nature of the Phoenix, to replace the old with the newly born."  
  
Locke, listening closely, seated himself cross-legged on the floor, facing her. "Wait. You mean it isn't the same Phoenix being reborn every time?"  
  
She shook her head. "Not exactly. The body is, indeed, the same, in form and power – however, the soul of each Phoenix is inherently different. Essentially, we are a race of creatures contained in one body, each given a chance at life in turn."  
  
"So you're not technically immortal?"  
  
"No. Technically not. But there are so many Phoenixes, and we are so long- lived, that our race will probably exist until the end of existence." She gazed at the floor, eyes mirroring an internal sadness. "But such was not meant for me."  
  
Locke studied her closely. Her face was so different from Rachel, who had always worn her emotions on her sleeve. The Phoenix struggled to keep such emotions inside, hidden. But it didn't work, not completely. Locke could see the pain. "What happened?"  
  
She pulled in a deep breath, collecting herself. "What you see before you here is my egg. This place is where I was born. It is the traditional temple of the Phoenix, where each one in turn is born. There are thousands upon thousands of these eggs down here, hidden amongst the endless hallways we've constructed."  
  
"Wait, wait. Aren't you Espers?"  
  
"Well, yes, in a sense. Our race has existed for a very, very long time, from far before the time that Espers came into being. We are no doubt older than the Goddesses themselves. However, when incorporating ourselves into a new plane of being, we must take on a form suitable for ourselves. As such, we acquired the shape of Espers, as their magical abilities accommodated us far more readily than any other here."  
  
"Gotcha."  
  
The Phoenix grimaced in preparation for the rest of her story. "I encountered a slight difficulty when being born, however. Upon emerging from my egg, I realized that I was not alone. The Temple had, since the last Phoenix left, been occupied by something else."  
  
It was Locke's turn to grimace. "That thing, right? What the hell is it?" The Phoenix could not help but sigh deeply at his inquiry.  
  
"It is a demon of terrible power. It thrives off of the souls of other beings, absorbing them into itself, and thereby nourishing its body. I believe, in your tongue, you would consider it a 'Banshee', owing largely to its scream. It uses that scream to. . . weaken, the outer body, giving the soul free passage to be removed. Quite forcibly, I might add."  
  
Locke nodded grimly. He'd heard of such things before, though they were the stuff of legends, not fact.  
  
She continued. "So you can imagine, then, how a demon such as this would consider acquiring a Phoenix to devour very attractive." Her head drooped. "Each new Phoenix contains within itself a doorway to the place in which our entire race, unborn, is contained. Were it to gain access to that, we would be ruined, and the demon given incredible power."  
  
Locke understood the ramifications quite well. Such a demon would probably wind up being more powerful than all three goddesses combined. "So. . . I'm guessing it ambushed you while you were being born?"  
  
The Phoenix lowered her eyes, perhaps in shame. "Yes. Just as I was emerging from my egg, it 'jumped me', as you might put it. I was yet too young to fend it off entirely; however, I knew that it had to be destroyed. So I expended all of my power, drawing in the strength of this temple to aid me."  
  
"It didn't work?"  
  
"No. Not completely, anyway. The Banshee was tossed out of the chamber, and became lost amongst the mazes of the temple. But my strength was insufficient to destroy it. Moreover, the energy I expended in the fight sapped me of my vitality. I. . . died, just as I was born." She traced a glowing finger across the marble floor, as though doing so would stem the outpour of emotions that threatened to engulf her. "My attempt to use the temple condemned me to walk its halls forever, as you see me now. I am, essentially, one with this temple." She sighed.  
  
Locke stared mutely at her. So was that it, then? Was the Phoenix dead? For good, this time? Would they be denied entrance into the world? Was Rachel not to be saved after all?  
  
"My tale is not yet complete, young one. Please listen until the end." The Phoenix's voice cut through his thoughts sharply, and yet they were not without their warmth. He looked up and apologized clumsily.  
  
She favoured him with a smile. "It does not matter. In any event, my attempts were not a complete failure, as I managed to use a small portion of my power to allow the next Phoenix in line to come to life, far from the demon. Our line does, indeed, continue. However," – and at this, Locke stilled his previously exhaled breath of relief – "it was what you would consider a stillborn. The newly created Phoenix was weak, far weaker than any of our kind should be. It could not cope with the insufficient amount of energy I expended to grant upon it my former body, and thus, was born as flawed. It did, however, manage to escape the temple; but where it lies now, I know not. There have been no new Phoenixes born upon this temple since that last one, so I must assume that it is either alive, or changed into Magicite."  
  
Locke started at this. "Magicite? Wouldn't that mean it's dead?"  
  
The Phoenix shook her head at this. "No, for Magicite does not truly mean death for any Esper, let alone a Phoenix. It is simply a transformation, of sorts, into a form that no Esper is able to escape. The distillation of their power made useable by others. If the Phoenix has become Magicite, however, I have little doubt that the crystal is deeply marred, and possibly useless."  
  
Despair and hope vied for control inside Locke. "Is there any way to restore such Magicite to normal?"  
  
The Phoenix nodded. "Yes. However, it can only been done through a transferral of power upon the Magicite. Something else would have to grant it a boost, if you will, for the Phoenix to become a proper member of its kind."  
  
Locke nodded. So, there was hope, no matter how small. "But you have no idea where I might find it?"  
  
The Phoenix simply shook her head.  
  
Locke pondered the entire situation in silence awhile. So, he could save Rachel after all. It was possible. But he'd have to find this weak Phoenix, and then. . . re-energize it? How to do that? Was it possible, in such a twisted world as this?  
  
Eventually, he decided to shunt the whole thing over to the side. His current predicament lay in aiding the ghostly Phoenix before him. This thought elicited a tiny smile of gratitude from her, though she said nothing. Turning back to her, he spoke.  
  
"Okay, so, I'm guessing you need my help to kill this thing. Right?"  
  
She nodded sagely. "Yes. No Phoenix will be born safely so long as it dwells here. And we don't have the power to remove it. I know this is a selfish request, as I can offer nothing in return, but. . ."  
  
Locke waved a hand in dismissal. He was already on his feet. "Far be it from me to turn down a woman in need. I'll do it."  
  
Her smile was brighter than the sun at that moment as she rose. Locke felt his heart warm from seeing it, even though he knew it wasn't Rachel. Moments like these made life worth living.  
  
"I knew I'd found the right man. I knew I read you correctly, Locke Cole. Thank you."  
  
NOTE: Good god, I write too much. I really went on a tangent with this one, and coming up with the whole Phoenix thing was quite fun. Just hope I managed to avoid any holes in the explanation.  
  
In other words, prepare for yet a third chapter – and I do hope it's the last. I don't wanna dwell on each character too much. 


	5. Search for Purpose: The Tale of Locke, P...

"So. . . what's this thing look like, anyway?"  
  
The Phoenix, kindly obliging, filled his mind with an image of his soon to be enemy.  
  
Locke cursed silently. This was going to be fun.  
  
"Is there. . . any way to kill it?"  
  
The Phoenix nodded. "It is hardly immortal. Fight it as you would any other demon; just be sure to find a way around its shriek."  
  
Locke scratched his head, annoyed. "Gee, thanks. All I have to do is avoid sound itself. Great."  
  
--  
  
Keye had wedged himself up behind a set of pillars. Blood was flowing freely from his ears. He couldn't hear a thing, and for that, he counted his blessings: the incessant scream of that. . . thing, was enough to drive a person insane. No doubt he would be very sorry about it after he got out of the accursed temple – if he ever did – but for the moment, deafness was a welcome boon. He clicked another arrow, its tip streaming glacial air, into place. The creature already bore seven of its twins, and he hoped that number eight would do the trick.  
  
It was coming. He could feel those intense vibrations in the floor. He'd grown accustomed to it; after all, they'd been playing this game of hide and seek for over an hour now. Through some supernatural grace, Keye had managed to keep his distance, and only its inhuman screams had managed to catch up to the dodgy thief thus far.  
  
But it was only a matter of time. This he knew all too well. Unless he managed to do the thing in soon, it was all over for. He'd run out of energy, he'd collapse, and it would pull him in.  
  
Keye wasn't ready to die yet. Not like that poor bastard he'd left behind in the main hall. And even if his fate was to be lost forever amongst these stony walls, eventually dying of starvation, he had no intention of letting that thing get a hold of him.  
  
So he prepared himself. Keye had managed to get himself into a rhythm; after running through two or three rooms, he'd be given enough time to set up for two quick shots. Nothing more. To try three was tempting death, despite the quick loading capabilities of his weapon. The creature was slowed substantially by the tight hallways, but once in the open, it moved with a speed that belied its bulk.  
  
He watched. The rumbling grew steadily as it advanced, forcing itself through endless passages, seeking nourishment. It was starving. It wanted food, it had scented food, and it would have that food.  
  
Keye steeled himself. His bow was poised and ready. The buzzing in his head went largely ignored. He'd had trouble standing, no doubt from the sudden loss of his hearing; but nothing, not dizziness nor lack of skill, would prevent him from getting off this shot.  
  
This time, he was aiming for the head. And if his first shot missed, or didn't work, then he'd go for the throat. How could anything live without those two vital parts?  
  
It came.  
  
--  
  
"You know, the easiest way to get rid of this thing would be to just bring the hallways down on it. You're part of the temple; can't you just collapse the section it's in?"  
  
The Phoenix shook her head adamantly. "No, I cannot. My soul is tied to the temple, true; but I cannot manipulate it in such a drastic manner."  
  
Locke snorted in exasperation. "But what about all the crap you did with the walls? Where I was out in space?"  
  
She smiled patiently. "All in your mind, I'm afraid."  
  
"Shit." Suddenly very tired, Locke seated himself. Since when was he the idea man? That had always been Edgar's department. Or Banon's. Or Celes', maybe. He just carried out the plans with his skill and panache. Even as a treasure hunting, happy-go-lucky loner, he'd tended towards simply taking things as they came. Planning wasn't foreign to him, just annoying. "Well. I imagine that the most important factor is to get rid of that scream, then. Maybe I can take it out the old fashioned way if I can manage that."  
  
The Phoenix slipped down beside him. "But how? From what I've seen, it relies completely on its voice. That is how it feeds. Such an attribute must be heavily guarded."  
  
Locke shrugged. "Hell, I dunno." He collapsed back against the marble. "I half miss having Keye around. Two against one would be preferable."  
  
"Would you like to see him as he is now?"  
  
Locke blinked, sitting up. ". . . you can do that?"  
  
She nodded. "But of course. I can witness everything that is happening in the temple at any given time."  
  
"Let's do it, then."  
  
--  
  
And he shot. As soon as four hooked tentacles dragged the bloated bulk of the Banshee around the corner, its vacant eyed, white visage peeking into the room, Keye let fly, his arrow streaming white haze across the hallway and into its misshapen chest. Its mouth dropped open – huge, malleable, and seemingly bereft of limitation – and a scream reverberated through the temple. Keye didn't hear it, though the aftershocks of its explosive power cut through his head, worsening the buzz. He ignored it and quickly slipped another arrow into place. Already, the greyish mound of spindly legs and whipping tentacles had emerged into the room, hooks flailing about, seeking purchase to further its progress.  
  
Keye began to fall back. His finger tightened against the trigger of the crossbow, and his arrow flew forward, piercing deeply into the creature's grotesquely muscular neck. He witnessed another of its soundless screams before retreating. It rumbled forward behind him, hooks already sinking deep into the pillar Keye had hidden by.  
  
He ran. His legs attempted to stumble, but sheer will drove him on: a will that insisted survival, and indeed enrichment, were still possible in this equation. Surely, this was the guardian of the place. Keye could not even hope to think of something more horrifying than this. And if that was so, then we would live, for he knew he could kill this creature. And after that, he could find his way back to the entrance. And then, he would locate the riches of this place. Oh yes, he would. He'd be rich.  
  
He continued to run.  
  
--  
  
"He's still alive. Good lord." Locke scratched the accumulated stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "I don't think he'll manage it doing that, though. His energy will give out before long." The Phoenix nodded a silent agreement.  
  
In some deep recess of his mind, Locke couldn't help but feel sorry for the con man. He was sure that Keye had fully intended to simply leave his 'colleague' down here to rot, once the job was done. Hell, he already had taken off on Locke, leaving the younger man for dead. It had only through the untimely intervention of the Phoenix that he was still alive.  
  
And yet. . . Locke wanted to help him. Thief or not, he had a powerful conscience. The door swung both ways in that sense - he had morals, but he stole things; he stole things, but he had morals. And his morals told him to save this man.  
  
But how to draw the demon away? That was the question, in the end: for if he simply ran in there and tried to help, it would first deafen and then devour Locke. That would not help Keye one bit. No, Locke would have to somehow get the Banshee to follow a different target.  
  
But what would that damned thing want more than a human soul?  
  
--  
  
The Banshee stopped. Its pale, sinewy face stretched upwards, nose snuffling the air lightly. But more than that, the thousands of sensors lining its enormous body had been set off. There was something. . . something in the temple. . . the thing it had been waiting for, all this time. . .  
  
A Phoenix. One had just been born. And the Banshee knew where it was. The putrid bag of pink flesh up ahead, possessing naught but a tainted soul, was suddenly of no concern.  
  
Sinking into itself, head reorienting at the back of its body, it started back through the temple with renewed speed. Its pale lantern eyes guided it through winding corridors of a limitless nature towards a beacon of delicious light.  
  
--  
  
"Sorry about this. You gonna be okay?"  
  
"I shall. And, even if I am meant to exist no longer, it will be fine so long as my race continues."  
  
--  
  
The Phoenix was in the midst of the great hall. Right in the centre of everything, still one with the image of Rachel, standing freely with her gown flowing around her in a ghostly fashion. Waiting. She had made her presence, for the first time, fully known to the creature. And now it had the chance to finish what it had begun.  
  
Starved beyond measure, it came, lurching with abnormal speed into the hall. In those voluminous eyes lurked a hunger unsurpassed by any. It didn't matter that this Phoenix was already just a soul; in fact, that would save it from having to crack open its head first. It lunged, hooks extended, and a huge, fleshy tube sliding easily from out of its throat and mouth. It dripped tendrils of mucus upon the floors. It came, rumbling, wanting, needing.  
  
And the Locke made his move. The creature, intent upon its prey, had not noticed him. He was perched against a single pillar of the left colonnade, high above the demon, daggers deeply plunged into the stone. But no longer; for he pulled both out with a mighty heave, and pushing his bended legs away from the pillar he fell upon the Banshee. It hadn't even a chance to shriek before he criss-crossed his daggers against the flesh of its bulbous throat, piercing the skin and vocal cords contained therein.  
  
His landing, needless to say, was ungraceful, and he was certain that he'd broken a rib or two. It also bore the rather horrifying attribute of covering him in purplish gore, as the banshee was now bleeding profusely.  
  
"Go!" he screamed at the Phoenix, and she vanished at once. The demon, now dumbfounded and mortally injured, began to thrash violently, and managed to send Locke flying against a pillar as one of its long tentacles catapulted him off of the ground and into the air. Luck still seemed to be with him, however, as the hooked ending on it did little more than scratch his face before sinking into the stone just beside his cheek.  
  
Wincing in pain but forcing himself to roll, Locke got onto his legs and made a staggering dash for the door. He came within a hair's breadth of slipping on the pooling liquid at his feet before his trained muscles managed to balance the young thief properly. Gasping, he flung himself through the door, the intense heat taking his breath away and nearly doing away with conscious thought. As it was, however, Locke managed to hang on – barely – and slammed into the dirt path just outside the temple. His motor skills came to an abrupt halt and he struggled on the ground, half stunned, attempting in vain to move.  
  
The Banshee, fully enraged by what was happening, and now aware that its sought out prey had eluded it, had come to the gruesome conclusion that the bringer of its misery had to pay. The gore pulsing out of its neck meant nothing to it. Death meant nothing. Only revenge, now. Dipping within itself and reorienting its head at the other end of its body – doing so managed to rip the wound open to an even greater degree – it sent its claws forward, seeking to ensnare the fallen thief but finding only a surprising difference in temperature outside the temple. It attempted in vain to scream in pain, but only a small, bubbling gurgle emerged.  
  
Locke, veins standing out on his neck, grasped at the dirt, dragging himself further and further from the mouth of the temple. Tentacles began to worm their way out around the sides of the door tentatively, pulling the bulk of the creature slowly forward, allowing it to acclimate itself enough to continue the chase. Locke gasped, trying to get onto his knees, and instead landed face-first in the dirt. Still he persisted in his flight, dragging himself along steadily, the creature visibly wincing behind him as it emerged into the inferno. Rivers of sweat slid down its thick, greyish skin.  
  
Grasping a nearby Phoenix statue, Locke pulled himself, unsteadily, onto his legs. He wavered, vision going hazy, nearly losing consciousness again. His eyes seemed to swim in shades of black and white, ever threatening to engulf his sight completely. However, Locke held on, using the biting pain in his ribs to keep his head above the murky waters of faintness. He struggled forward on shaky feet, staggering to and fro, but headed on a determined path towards the dirt tunnel leading back to the surface. If he could just escape for a while longer. . . it would bleed to death. . . just a bit more. . . or so he hoped, anyway.  
  
It came forward. Its hooks dug deeply into the dirt. Its legs, thin and insectile, drove it forward in a frenzy. Heavy globs of blood stained the ground, bubbling from the intense heat. Its neck was an absolute mess. To Locke, who managed to spare a brief second to view his pursuer, it seemed even more nightmarish now than before.  
  
It was this imagery that saved his life, for the horror of the creature gave his legs even greater motivation. His muscles sprang to life as he recovered from the temperature shock, carrying him into the tunnel with a sudden speed that made him gasp in surprise. His boots crunched the hard dirt steadily as he ran.  
  
But it would not be outdone. Sensing the desperation of its prey, the Banshee lunged forward with renewed vigour. The shock had begun to wear off. Its heady rumble echoed up and down the tunnel as it entered, burbling its threats through a second mouth. It and Locke seemed wholly matched in speed.  
  
And so they ran. And crawled. And Locke, at length, could not help but call out, "Why me, why me, why me. . ." as his legs carried him to an uncertain fate. Would the goddamned thing never run out of blood?  
  
The end, much to Locke's relief, nearly fifteen minutes after entering the tunnel, was surprisingly anticlimactic. Drained of almost every drop of its vitality – literally – the Banshee simply collapsed. The rumble stopped, its echoes lingering only a moment. Those fading sounds gave Locke sudden pause, and his panicky run, which had devolved into a tired trot by this point, came to a halt. He peered back into the darkness, unable to see the creature behind him.  
  
Now came the time of choice. By all rights, he should go back and see whether it was dead or not. He had been charged with the job of killing the thing: and if, in fact, it were not destroyed, he had to do it in for good.  
  
But what if it was a trick? What if the Banshee was just using its silence as a ruse? Locke had little doubt that the creature could be devious when it had its wits about it. And it was not difficult for any creature to feign death with its throat slit open. No, instead of coming into the range of its tentacles, he should just take off. It was probably dead.  
  
But what if it wasn't? What of the Phoenix? Would she be stuck in the same spiritual impasse that she had been for far too long already? Her image floated back to his mind, and when Locke saw his beautiful Rachel pleading for him to be sure of it, he knew what he would do.  
  
When he actually found the thing dead – Locke had to stab it in the eye, just to make sure – he nearly collapsed from joy. His joy was eclipsed somewhat by the fact that he could not get back around the creature to see if the Phoenix was okay, as it blocked the tunnel.  
  
But the thought of her vanished quickly. His brain soon began to swim with a new quest, a new purpose.  
  
He would find the Phoenix. Or the Magicite bearing its soul. And Rachel, the real Rachel, would be in his arms once more.  
  
--  
  
Keye actually managed to find a way out; however, his exit of choice happened to be located some distance above the door to the temple. He fell out - stunned by the intense heat - hit the dirt, and rolled, quite limply, into the pit of lava. It was a strangely comedic death for so serious a debacle.  
  
NOTE: I think I ran out of energy on this one. Hence, to entertain myself, I dropped Keye into some lava. Yes. 


	6. Hopeful Charade: The Tale of Cyan

She looked so bitter.

So very, very bitter.

Her eyes were tight long before their time, restraining tears of blind accusation. Her youthful skin, unusually pale, seemed unhealthy. Sallow. Her hands were wringing in utter frustration, strangling a hapless book to a death that was beyond it. Her dress, normally neat and tidy, was creased. Worn. Unattended to in the daily chores. She wanted something, she needed something; but what was it? What, exactly, was this young woman's difficulty?

It took a few days of investigation to discover the problem. She was lonely. Her boyfriend had stopped writing letters after the end of the world. An end that had done away with so many poor lives, her significant others' included: and she was slowly beginning to recognize that fact.

The bold knight of Doma, bearing in him a similarly painful scar, watched her through her kitchen window for the third evening running. He saw in her a mirror of his own pain, his own torture, that he could not help his beloved in a time of need. She, too, had not been there when her young soldier, wounded as he was in Mobliz, endured his death pains. In light of their situation, Cyan's pain seemed somehow shallow, as he at least had been able to hold his deceased wife in his arms one last time before the end. This young woman had endured no such convenience. Her relationship had suddenly been tossed into anonymity. There would be no closure: instead, the dull ache of knowing that, more than likely, her lover was dead.

The knight understood her pain. He understood it all too well. And now, having existed for so long in a hopeless world – nearly seven months – he decided he would have no part of it. This girl, whom he watched through veiled windows, sniffling pathetically, not noticing the armoured man who always came to watch her, would be given a ray of hope.

He would give her hope. Hope that he, himself, had none of.

--

"Thou thou thou thou!"

The loudly enunciated words reverberated through his skull as powerfully as a blaring trumpet pressed against his temple. Cyan, Retainer to the Lord of Doma and recently self-dubbed knight-errant, rolled forth from his stony stoop and crashed to the ground with a decidedly unmanly shriek. His armour clattered loudly against the cobblestone street, drawing a few stares from passer-bys.

Atop him, crouched and looking ready to pounce, was a young boy. His hair, garb, and demeanour practically screamed bestial. Most who witnessed the event would not have been surprised if the little creature had deigned it necessary to sink his teeth into the elderly knight's neck.

Instead, however, the boy proceeded to fling his arms around his captive's neck, exclaiming "Thou, thou!" to the world. To their further astonishment, the man, who had at first seemed both fearful and angered, had begun to laugh merrily. He rose, dragging the boy up behind him – the later assumed a piggyback position, lessening the considerable strain on Cyan's throat – and tried in vain to face his friend. The entire ordeal ended with Cyan spinning around in several large, somewhat annoyed circles, telling Gau to get off. Eventually, his beaming labour did, leaping from off his shoulders and landing nimbly on the smooth stone sidewalk.

"Saints be, Gau! I thought you were dead!" Cyan grasped the boy's wiry hand in his own, and the two engaged in a vigorous handshake. Gau, not entirely sure what was going on, simply went along with it.

Gau danced about on the street. He looked rather like a monkey, capering frantically and turning cartwheels. All the while he spouted off the word "thou", a phrase that had annoyed Cyan to no end months earlier. Now, however, it was a word of joy to his ears.

Cyan had to grab the boy in mid-turn to restore order. "Come now, do not be in such a frenzy. Ye be attracting a few stares." He motioned to the people assembled, all of whom watched the display with either amusement or concern in their faces. "This way, Gau, this way." He shuffled the excitable boy off of the road, throwing one final look at the girl's house before disappearing with his charge into a small alleyway.

They exchanged greetings and tales. Cyan, for his part, had spent his time wandering around the continent, not trusting himself to sail alone on any boat. His life had been relatively uneventful: he'd taken it upon himself to protect anybody he'd come across from the numerous demons that now held the world in a vice grip. He was good at fighting, and the function of defender seemed a natural thing: however, it had come with relatively little gusto. His continued existence seemed relatively ashy in his mouth when he considered the fact that he had probably been lucky. Nobody else had survived.

He felt vindicated to be dead wrong. He also felt very stupid, too, for having doubted his friends so much. When had the great knight of Doma become so pessimistic?

For his part, Gau was relatively scant on details. The boy had never been particularly descriptive in his stories, and the last seven months had evidently done little to improve his skills. Cyan suspected he would never know the full extent of the boy's journey. Nor did it particularly matter, as he seemed perfectly healthy, both mentally and physically.

Gau's agenda, however, was very plain: keep up the mission. Kill Kefka. Save the world. Even if they were the only two left to fight on. And Cyan agreed fully with him: they would have to head out – eventually – and beat the madman who had ruined existence. But. . .

--

". . . must we partake of this journey right away, Gau?"

Gau blinked, cocking his head to one side quizzically. "Uuuh?"

Cyan began to fidget nervously. "Um, well. . . it truly is of the utmost importance that we defeat Kefka, but, I have some things to do first. . . must ye abduct me immediately into this venture?"

Gau scratched his scalp, flicking aside some small piece of unmentionable. Cyan shuddered. "Why no now?"

"As I said, I have things I must attend to. You see. . ."

"Things?"

"Yes, things. . . ye must tru-"

"Things?"

"Well-"

"Things?"

"Uh-"

"Things?"

Cyan slumped. Gau may not have been the most linguistically empowered member of the team, but he was no idiot. Little slipped by his gleaming eyes and sharp brain. "Very well. Come this way, ye snooper."

The pair returned to the street. More than a few curious eyes alit upon the pair, wondering just what they had been up to, secreted amongst the fetid refuse and lukewarm pools of sewer water. Cyan dragged the ragged little boy over to his previous lookout, seating Gau upon the rocky steps that Cyan had frequented for three days. With a single, weathered finger he pointed into the house where, drying dishes, his girl stood. Lola.

"Do you see that woman there, Gau?"

Gau nodded.

"She has. . . had. . . a boyfriend in Mobliz. He once sent letters to her all the time, but now, he has passed away. I cannot say that for sure, but from what I've heard of Mobliz, it seems easy to say as such. I have been watching her, and she always looks so sad. It is. . . difficult, to explain, but I. . ."

"Thou?"

Cyan tossed his companion a little glare. "I want to help her. I want to make her feel better. For her sake. She looks so mournful. I can hardly bear to see it."

He rested one palm against the cool stone. "I cannot explain it, but. . . I simply have to help her. It tugs at my very soul. I know this is an inadequate excuse, but – "

"I go train on Veldt. Prepare for fight Kefka. When ready, come."

Cyan turned to look at Gau. He had expected a longer argument. He even looked for one. But where he looked, he saw only an empty stairway, and heard naught but the rapidly retreating patter of unclad feet.

--

Cyan put his plan into action quickly. The entire scheme seemed embedded into his brain the moment he knew that Gau was gone. Every stage of it coalesced instantaneously, all ordered and planned as though Cyan had been concocting it for ages.

First, locate a base of operations. It would have to be a very remote locale, one isolated from any chance of interference in his plans. There would be no chance of young Lola discovering who was playing the part of her deceased boyfriend. Cyan quickly discovered such a place in the largely abandoned mountains around Zozo: its inhabitants, who consisted mainly of monsters and brigands, would not care a whit about his plans to keep the woman happy. Their presence also created a zone in which most travellers would not want to traverse, thus allowing Cyan a protected element of secrecy, not to mention a steady stream of creatures to hone his skills against. He was, of course, still at war.

Second, purchase materials necessary for both beginning and then perpetuating the charade. Silk – of all available colours -, scissors, pens, paper, a large mirror, bird feed, several carrier pigeons, common clothing, hair dye and gel, a camera, a few flash bulbs, a desk, candles, matches, and, of course, food.

Third, gather info about the boyfriend. His likes, dislikes, quirks, habits, appearance, and so forth. Cyan had to be very careful in this regard, as Maranda was not the largest of towns, and gossip about this person or that travelled quickly. Eventually, he managed to persuade most people he accosted that he was compiling a sort of town roster that would eventually detail general information about every person in Maranda. Most people he told of his plan found it curiously eccentric, but went along with it anyway. Cyan even managed to discover a few tidbits from the girlfriend herself, though in her case he took pains to disguise himself.

Fourth, set everything into motion. Over the span of two weeks, Cyan slowly but surely moved his new acquisitions – via Chocobo-drawn cart – to the mountains. He managed the somewhat considerable expense of the entire endeavour by killing any monsters he happened upon during his journeys. Soon, his own little office and home was set up, complete with provisions, furniture, and a chest for his own personal effects.

Cyan had, during the third phase, managed to procure a picture of the young man in question via the town librarian. He had evidently been quite the go-getter: member of the local soccer team, son of a chocobo breeder and gaining his own reputation in the field, winner of a great many school awards, and, of course, conscript in the Empire. The photo was of the young man, decked out in his fancy new armour, looking incredibly miserable. He was moments away from being led off to serve in the army.

He looked so very distraught. Cyan could only imagine what was going through his mind at that moment, that moment which was now caught in all its static agony.

Fetching his mirror, Cyan cut his hair. He trimmed it nicely and neatly, parting it down the middle, allowing formerly restrained bangs to flow forward. It all puffed up nicely on his skull. His long, flowing tresses fell to the floor in large clumps. It had been ages since he'd last cut his hair.

Then he attempted to dye it. Dumping a full bucket of water on his head, he initiated the slow, arduous process. Dye was a new element in the world, only recently created, and Cyan seemed rather inherently to distrust the entire process. His concerns came with good reason: twenty minutes into the whole ordeal his scalp began to itch violently, enlightening Cyan to the fact that he was allergic to whatever goop he'd just put on his head. His legs began to flail about instinctively, dashing him around his tiny cave dwelling madly, until he got it into his head to dunk himself in the second bucket of water he'd put aside for just such an emergency. Unfortunately, the water seemed to make things even worse, and the itching would not subside for nearly an hour. Upon inspecting his head when the feeling had worn off, Cyan noticed a considerable rash spreading across the skin below his hair. He cursed most violently, and for some time.

Soon after, he realized that the camera only took photographs in black and white, and renewed his cursing. It would not be until nightfall that Cyan, under a candlelit vigil, decided to end his pained sulking and begin his efforts anew. He tried on his clothes; carefully sorted out his hair by hand, as he'd forgotten to buy a comb; carefully clipped off his moustache; and, so as to disguise himself further, smudged dirt on his face.

His work completed, he snatched up the photo, studying the young man. The man he was trying desperately, for the happiness of one sorrowful woman, to imitate. And then he gazed upon his own reflection in his mirror, comparing both visages.

They looked nothing alike. The young man had a squat head, while Cyan's was far more ovular. Cyan was too tall. His face was far too worn, aged through years of battle and concern. Even after a year of hardship, Cyan knew her boyfriend would still have looked rather fresh-faced. It wouldn't work.

Cyan took a picture anyway, blinding himself with the flash. Despite the supernova in his eyes, however, he could tell just from looking and comparing the two photos that the girl would not fall for it.

And what if she did? What then? Would she take the letter, and the photo with it, and feel the urge to rush to her beloved's side? Surely, simply telling her to stay put would not restrain her. Would she run to ruined Mobliz, where she would likely only encounter profound disappointment and despair? Would Cyan go and intercept her there, and tell her the truth, only for her to think him scum? Or would she just die along the way, killed by voracious demons?

What had he expected out of all this?

Cyan crumpled the fresh picture. He sank against the side of his hovel-like dwelling and sobbed, wishing that his wife and son were there to make things right again.

Just what the hell had he expected to do?

--

Lola, as always, rose early. She pushed her way out of bed, staggering sleepily to the kitchen. Her mind flashed briefly to her boyfriend – it always did, frankly – but soon jumped, just as quickly, to other matters.

Breakfast was at the top of her list. A small, aching knot in her stomach informed Lola that it was time to eat. Gazing out her wide kitchen window, eyes travelling up to the twilight sky, she distractedly grabbed a loaf of bread and slid two pieces into her small oven. Toast sounded good. She set the knob for five minutes and let the bread brown steadily as she let her thoughts wander, simply looking out the window. A vacant stairway lay some distance from her home.

There had been a man in her view, so many times, just sitting on the steps she gazed upon now. He had always seemed so lost in thought, brow knitted in concentration, as though her were searching desperately for both a question and an answer. She'd even talked to him – once – but didn't believe for a second his alibi of creating a list of town members. He'd always just seemed lost.

She sighed. Even that man was gone now. Most women probably would have thought him some kind of stalker, as it was obvious he was looking at her house: Lola, however, merely missed his presence. Too many things had changed in the world; now she'd just lost another fixture of life.

Her thoughts threatened to dip back into the greatest loss of her few years when a tapping sounded on her windowpane. She blinked, a little confused, and the incessant summons repeated itself. She gazed upon the source to find a snowy white pigeon perched on her sill. It had a small bundle attached to its leg, one it looked in a hurry to be rid of.

She opened the window. The pigeon hopped in, dragging its burden behind it. Working delicately – a capability she would have thought beyond her, so sleepy as she was – Lola worked the string off of the little bird's leg, and snagged its package. The bird simply waited on the sill, completely domesticated and friendly towards humans.

Lola observed the thin, rolled parcel she had just received. It was a letter. The writing was high and thin, very neatly done, and almost artistic in construction.

She read.

--

Cyan sat in the dark, still pondering his choice. One hand idly fed his remaining carrier pigeon some choice grain. Why had he? Was it to amend something? She probably wouldn't believe it. She would probably, in fact, feel highly insulted. What had he been thinking?

"Oh, mine head is plagued with demons." He sighed and set the pigeon gently aside, leaving its food on a soft piece of cloth for it to nibble at. He strode out of his cavern, kicking his discarded camera out of the way. He'd sent no photograph. The thing was now as it had always been, a technological piece of junk, and of no use to the knight.

She probably wouldn't even write back. Cyan sighed again, deeply, eyes watching the receding sun.

The returning pigeon landed, almost silently, on his shoulder, and it took Cyan a moment to register its existence. He blinked in surprise – especially upon noting that it bore a letter. And it was not his own, for the paper he wrote on had a yellowed tinge to it. He'd chosen as such to simulate the supposedly poor conditions in Mobliz.

Carefully unwinding the string from his bird's leg, he unfurled the note, perusing its contents.

After several minutes, a disbelieving and somewhat rueful smile blossomed on his lips.

"I think," he considered thoughtfully to himself, "that it be time to implement step five: flowers."

NOTE: You know, I'm not sure at all what my opinion is on this one. It's not good, or great, or fantastic; nor is it dull, or bad, or horrible. It simply is, in my mind. Go figure.


End file.
